Chapter Text
-Kill him, kid! Come on!- Stick ordered in an angry voice.
It was the fourth or maybe fifth time that Stick had given him that order in the last 5 minutes, and, not for the first time since he'd been away from Hell's Kitchen, he'd been tempted to obey.
It was the middle of the night, as usual, and it was raining. They all were soaked and tired, tired of this terrible night and Matt himself was tired of everything. He was fighting for something he didn't believe in, following orders from a man who didn't respect the way he used to when he was a boy, who treated him like a kid every time the lawyer made a personal decision about how to face situations.
Stick used to beat him as he did in the past, except now Matt was an adult, so the punishments were pretty much harder and more painful than when he was nine years old.
The bruises on his body weren't only due to the fights, right now.
This "man" was responsible for the murders of five children; the oldest, 15 years old, the youngest, only 5. All of them were sons or nephews of some politician from New Jersey, who both the Yakuza and the Triad (if Stick wasn't lying to him this time) wanted to control to gain power on the drug market of the State. Matt could barely think someone could be so cruel to kill without a real reason. They could have kidnapped these kids and blackmailed their fathers. No. They murdered them.
-Kill him! Now!- Stick's voice brought him back to reality.
This horrible man was completely in their power, in his power, actually; Matt was blocking him in a deadly grip, of a kind Stick had taught to him. He could end this person's life with only one, simple gesture, and he was really fighting with his own conscience to not follow his instinct, this time stronger than ever.
The idea of those children, killed by this guy's hands, was stuck in his mind, and it would be so easy to put an end to all this horror with a single movement of his arms.
You promised, Matthew. Foggy's voice echoed in his head. You are not crossing that line. There's the police for this. You are not God.
He stopped a moment before going through with the fatal gesture. Unfortunately, Stick didn't have his same sense of justice.
-Don't move!- He heard, at the same time as Stick said those words, the hiss of the arrow he'd loosed from his bow. He could do nothing but feel it hitting the man's throat. Stick knew very well that he would have done everything possible to save his prisoner's life, that's why he had spoken only after releasing the arrow. Dammit, was all he could think. The man died a minute later.
Matt felt sick and he suddenly dropped the body he was still holding in his arms, only to turn the other way and throw up the pizza he had for dinner. It was too much for him to handle.
This was not justice.
Stick didn't give him time to regain control of his stomach. He basically took him by the arm and carried him away roughly.
The young lawyer could hear the police coming, and he realized they would soon find the five bodies of the children and the ones of the guilty. The accomplices were knocked out, and the officers would also find and send the young men to jail.
Matt wasn't really stable on his feet, so he let Stick drag him to their house in that town.
-You stupid, useless kid!- Stick rebuked him, throwing him away across the room. Matt knocked against the corner of the wardrobe with a groan of pain. He'd been hit during the mission, so the pain was even worse.
He was still feeling nauseous, his stomach was aching, and he was trembling with cold, but he knew what was coming.
He had felt his mentor's anger during their journey home, barely restrained under the mask of a good dad helping his sick child. Now they were alone, no one would see them, and he was going to release all his built-up rage. Matt prepared himself for the punishment.
Stick caught him with a kick, right where the center of most of his pain was. The shot was really bad, and it made Matt cry out. That didn't stop the old man, who kept beating him until the young man was at his limit.
-Get up!-
Matt tried to obey, but he simply couldn't, his body too weak to respond. He tried to lift with his shaking arms, but they failed him, and he fell on the floor again.
Stick hit him again.
-Get up!-
He failed a second time. Another rap reached his chest, he felt his body lift and roll on the ground. Now he was on his back, his hands on his stomach trying to protect himself.
-Get up!-
The lawyer shook his head, then he laid it on the ground, unable to move. Stick thumped him again and again and after every blow he repeated him the order. When he was tired of using his hands and feet, he began to hit him with his cane. Matt stopped even to try to protect himself.
The older man stopped only when Matt couldn't even moan anymore.
-The next time you don't carry out my orders, you will regret, kid.- He promised, then he left the young man lying on the floor, barely able to breathe.
Matt didn't answer. He coughed weakly a couple of times, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood while it spilled out from his mouth, then everything went black.
The young woman was going to the supermarket when she saw him.
That's impossible. She told herself. He's just a man wearing sunglasses. That's not him. Stop seeing him in every man you meet. He is in New York where you left him.
But she couldn't avoid staring at that boy. That walk, the way he was limping, as if he was in considerable pain. She couldn't see his face and he wasn't carrying any cane with him, so she couldn't be sure. From behind, that guy totally looked like Matt. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a navy bomber.
With that outfit, sunglasses and without his cane, he looked just like any regular guy. Of course, she knew Matt used to act like any regular blind man, but she was sure that if he wanted, he could hide his disability because of his superpower.
She'd never seen him dressed like that. When he was at home, he used to wear sweatpants and t-shirt, and when he was out he usually wore his suits; black pants and jackets, white shirt and tie.
She tried to remember if she had ever seen jeans or that kind of coat in his wardrobe, but she couldn't.
The man entered in the small church in front of her.
She decided to go with her instinct and follow him.
When he returned to life, he could feel the warmth of the sun hitting his face. He was still in his black suit, lying on the floor where he'd passed out after Stick's treatment. His clothes were still wet, and he was shivering, frozen down to his bones.
He tried to move, when a rush of soreness caught him, making him almost cry out. Matt decided to move very slowly. He had to rise, to take care of his injuries and manage to put on some dry clothes.
It turned out that the only thing he could do was the first one, and not without some difficulties.
His chest ached like hell, mostly where Stick had hit him the night before. When he finally managed to sit down, the world of fire began to spin, almost making him vomit again.
Somehow, he could stand up, grabbing the table to not fall down. He took some deep breaths to calm down and hauled himself to the couch to think.
He was reaching the limit.
Stick had no mercy at all, and every night Matt was forced to watch people die, and they weren't always guilty. His former mentor had the very deplorable habit of killing whoever saw them.
He had discovered, some days afterwards, that he'd killed the young girl Matt had saved the first week of their new forced partnership. He couldn't do or say anything about that. He was too cowardly, too afraid for his family's safety to dare face Stick, and beyond that, it was too late. She was already gone.
This situation was killing him from the inside.
Being Daredevil could be difficult sometimes; he had seen lots of terrible things in his crusade against Fisk.
He had thought to have seen the worst with the Chinese who were blinded for their work with pure drugs, but what Stick had done this time was even worse, because it was done without reason.
When he first met Claire, he said to his prisoner he enjoyed hurting people, but they were just words, he wanted to scare him to force him to obey. Stick actually had fun when he was torturing someone, Matt could smell, hear and feel his satisfaction, and that was terrible.
Even punishing him didn't really make much sense. He was a man now, and he was used to beatings, he wasn't scared by blows and he wouldn't change his stance on killing because of some knocks.
Stick didn't do that to punish him, no; it was his way to relax.
Matt wasn't really happy about it, but if he didn't submit, the next punch bag could be Foggy.
He needed to get out, to take a breath of fresh air.
That was easier said than done.
He tried to change his clothes, but he barely could walk, and the black mask suit he was wearing was so wet that the cotton of the light, black sweater was clinging to him, and when he'd tried to pull it off, the world around him began to spin again and he'd almost fallen down.
Somehow he managed to change his trousers for a pair of jeans he had bought a day or so before. He didn't like wearing them very much, his skin (made more sensitive because of the accident that took his sight away) always had a sort of allergic reaction, but he couldn't find anything better, at least not with the money he had with him, anyway.
He covered the sweater with a jacket and went out, without bothering to check for Stick. If he was at home, he was probably sleeping, or meditating. If he was out... well, Matt really didn't care.
After half an hour, he finally reached a church. He didn't know where he was exactly, maybe Boston, but he wasn't sure and he couldn't walk for too long, so he had taken a cab that left him half a mile away from a church settled in a pedestrian zone. He had spent half of the small amount he had left. He didn't care. He needed to stay alone for a while, in a safe place, where even Stick would not dare to hurt him. He felt sick only thinking about the distance, but he needed somewhere to confess.
Well, not exactly.
What he'd really wanted was to go back to Hell's Kitchen even just for a minute. Check if Foggy, Karen and everyone he cared about was ok and breathe his polluted air, smelling the mixture of stinks and perfumes typical of his neighborhood.
He wanted to go home.
While he was slowly walking toward the church, lost in his thoughts about home, for a while he considered to buy a burner and call Foggy, even to listen his voicemail. He needed to hear the familiar voice of his partner. His friend would probably curse him even in punjabi, but he wouldn't care, he knew that despite everything, Foggy would be happy too.
He was starting doing calculations about how much that would cost, when he suddenly was afraid. Matt was reaching his limit, his nostalgia was stronger than ever. Probably the last time he felt like that was after his father's funeral.
He understood that if he had called Foggy, that could mean his final collapse. He would not manage to keep going on. So, for once, he chose the easy way, the selfish one, and he pushed the idea back.
When he entered the church, he could smell the familiar scent of incense and burning candles.
That gave him the illusion of being at home, that Father Lantom would approach him with a smile, ready to offer him a latte, the consolation of a confession, and the thing that was most important to Matt; the word of a friend.
He felt his eyes becoming full with tears, but somehow he could hold on, somehow. He knew that there was nothing wrong in crying, but if he surrendered now, desperation would overcome him and destroy all his strength.
Approaching the altar, he sat himself on a pew, unable to stand for even a second longer. He felt pain in every muscle he could and couldn't feel. The wood was warm and reassuring to his touch.
He closed his eyes, thinking about home, about Claire taking care of him every time he needed, even when he didn't deserve it.
If he focused enough, he almost could smell Claire's perfume as if she were right next to him; he imagined hearing her light steps while she was in his apartment. He could almost physically feel her hand catching his gently and he couldn't avoid thinking about how strange the human heart could be. Of all the people he loved, he was thinking about the one he knew for sure he had lost, maybe forever. He had screwed everything up with her, and she had made very clear that she would only be his nurse when he needed her, nothing more, and listening to her heartbeat he had heard she meant it.
He felt so homesick that his brain was making a perfect image of the girl approaching him and touching his hand. Nostalgia worked in a very strange way, making the unreal real.
-Matt...-
Wait... false impressions didn't speak, did they?
She entered the church some seconds after him, but she didn't face him directly. She wanted to be sure, so she walked through the aisle, at his left. She watched him sitting and a few steps later she was finally able to see his face.
Oh my God. It's him.
And...were those tears?
Matt…
No matter what happened (or more accurately, not happened) between them, she had regretted her own words as soon as she had time for thinking about them. She had left New York with a heavy heart, fearing that what she had told him could lead Matt to do something stupid. Now he was here, sitting in some kind of physical and psychological pain, and, despite everything, she couldn't leave him alone.
Claire turned back and slowly she sat next to him, alarmed by his lack of reaction. She knew he could hear sounds and smells literally some blocks away, and she had no doubt he'd heard her moves or her perfume. Why wasn't he reacting? Don't be stupid, do you really think he could remember it?
What's wrong with you, Matt?
She slowly slid nearer to him, until she could take his hand, gently, without abrupt movements.
-Matt...- she whispered when he didn't react even to that. -Matt, what's wrong?-
-Matt, what's wrong?-
He opened his eyes, a pretty useless gesture considering he couldn't see, but the voice seemed so real that he instinctively looked at her, as if he could actually see her face and be sure she wasn't a dream.
He turned towards the whisper with a start. Her perfume, the softness of her touch, the kindness in her voice. The unique rhythm of her heart, which he'd memorized, all forming a rough shape made of flames in his mind. Her face didn't have defined features but he knew her immediately. Claire.
She was real.
She was here.
No. No.
He'd recognized her. She had seen him relax for a second after she'd spoken, but then he'd suddenly pushed her away as if she were the enemy.
-Matt- she whispered, grabbing his arms -Matt. It's me. It's Claire-
-No. No- he was trying to break himself free from her hold. She wasn't so strong, but he didn't manage to get loose, even if she wasn't really fighting to keep him.
-Matt. Matt, please. Calm down-
-Go away, Claire. Stay away from me- his voice was so low and desperate she barely could understand what he was trying to say. -Stay...away. Please, Claire, please-
As a reaction, Claire let go of his arms only to hold him tight, ignoring his words and his attempts to push her away from him. He was trembling, and soon he stopped to fight, losing himself in her hug. He began to sob, then he burst into desperate tears.
-Matt...- she whispered his name, hugging him tighter. She let him hide his face in the socket of her neck, his tears were dampening her t-shirt, but she didn't care. She'd never seen the Devil of Hell's Kitchen like this before, and it was something she had never thought could happen.
-Matt...- she repeated quietly, trying to make her voice sound soft and sweet, as if she was comforting a frightened child. -Ssh...it's ok, Matt. Everything is gonna be fine. I'm with you. I'm here...-
Matt really wanted to stop crying like a baby.
Matt really wanted to push her away.
Matt really wanted to keep her out of danger.
But all he could do was stay in her embrace, let her hold him tight, listen to her heart beating under her t-shirt and to her soft voice whispering reassuring words into his ear, smell her perfume. She smelled like home.
She was home.
Slowly, he tried to control his emotions. His sobs began to slow down and somehow he stopped crying, even if he couldn't quite hold back all of his tears. He raised his head and freed himself.
-Are you ok?- she whispered, her voice revealing how worried she was about his emotive collapse, but also relieved now that he was himself again.
He nodded.
Wrong move.
His head began to spin, and, once again he could barely hold back the nausea.
-Whoa. Easy, Matt. Easy- her voice was the sweetest sound in the world.
She grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him lay down on the pew, his head resting on his legs. She unzipped his jacket to let him breathe easily...and she found the wet black sweater.
Again, he tried to revolt against her, but she ignored him.
-God, Matt. You're soaked! Are you trying to get sick? Let's get out of here. You need help-
-No... No, Claire. You have to to...stay away...from me. He's gonna hurt you-
-Who?-
-We... we made a deal... I... I have to... obey... Foggy... - he started saying disconnected words. He wanted to say so many things that everything was getting confused inside. His head kept spinning, he felt as though he were losing consciousness and he fought to stay awake.
He needed air.
He'd wanted to go home.
He'd wanted to stay in her arms forever.
-Matt. Matt. Listen to my voice. Focus on me, can you do that?- Claire's voice was still low and sweet, but now there was a point of roughness in it, something that forced him to listen to her. -Matt. Focus. On. Me.-
He lifted his head toward the direction of her voice, where he knew her eyes were. He heard her take the glasses from his face and gently dry his tears. He was nearly calm right now, even if he was still shaking like a leaf.
-Matt...-
-Claire... please. Go away- he begged.
-Not a chance-
-If he...-
-We'll figure out something, like... -she tried to think of something credible -you were here and you passed out, so I took you to the ER and then to my place-
-He... knows...your perfume. He smelled it... in my home-
-Then I'll change it- she resolved. -Now we are taking a cab, you'll calm down and let me help you, ok?-
-What if I say no?-
-I'll call 911- and to prove that she took her phone from the pocket of her trousers out and started the call, knowing perfectly well Matt would hear everything.
He was still, as if he'd known she would never do that for real, but he suddenly grabbed her arm when the operator answered and she began to talk.
-No. No, please- He begged.
She put the call on stand-by mode.
-Then you do as I say-
Matt was defeated. He nodded. She hung up the phone and led him to her place.